


Ned Stark: Wild Wolves

by skysonfire



Series: Sean Bean [2]
Category: Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: F/M, House Stark, Inspired by Game of Thrones, Inspired by Sean Bean, One Shot Collection, Romance, Sexual Content, The Wolf is of the North, winter is coming
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-11-15
Updated: 2015-11-15
Packaged: 2018-05-01 18:24:07
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 729
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5216039
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/skysonfire/pseuds/skysonfire





	Ned Stark: Wild Wolves

The morning light throws itself through the windows' openings and drenches all with a white, blinding fever. Snow dances about on the day's breath, and movement is quiet down below -- footsteps muted under a cold blanket.  
"Winter is coming," the world seems to whisper.  
She sits carefully on the edge of the bed, thick furs brushing against her naked thighs. She waits for him with the fierceness of a thousand wild wolves beating against her throat. She swallows hard and tastes hours-old ale at the back of her tongue. There is a thirst that grows in her, something that water nor wine can sate.

When the wooden door cries open, an alarm on its brass hinges, she stands and loosens her hair. It hits the back of her neck with a quickly dissipating heat, and she turns slowly to meet him. The sun catches his eye in such a way to drain all the color away, and he is so clear. So vibrant his expression -- the handsome weathering of his face; the lines in his brow -- vertical cuts above his eyes, so distinct. His beard is close clipped and his teeth bite ever so quickly at his lip as he eyes her, expressionless. It is fleeting, but she knows what it means.

She eases back onto the bed and he comes to hover before her -- his presence so thick and commanding. She glances up at him and he touches softly at her hair, his calloused palms catching the silken strands.

"You are something to see, love," he says, his voice taking a low pitch, full of northern sounds.

She smiles and untangles the loop on his belt.

He strikes her with a look of surprise, but brings his hands to the braids of his tunic, his deft fingers wrestling them free. He sheds his first layer and places it gently on the arm of the chair next to the bed.

She rubs her feet together anxiously and he removes his boots. He turns and stands near to her, pushing his thighs against the mattress. She places her hand on the ties at his crotch, her fingers squeezing ever so slightly against the swell growing at her touch.

She hears him exhale, the anticipation strong in his chest, and he leans down over her, his lips taking from her the breath in her mouth. He is hot and she struggles to take him in. She wants all of him, and her tongue swaths over his own, a desirous burning threatening her gut and the yearning between her thighs.

"You've been gone too long, Ned," she wrestles the words from her mouth as he runs his hand along the underside of her thigh, squeezing as he goes.

She pulls the cotton shift from over his head and touches her hands along the scars that dapple his chest. He pauses to examine her, too, his thumb tracing along her cheek, down her throat and along her breast. He rubs at her erect nipple and she gasps, her hands pushing at the leather of his breeches, forcing them over his hips. He is hard and throbbing for her, and she ascends to her knees, encouraging his shoulders down onto the bed.

His body, a pale, perfect specter before her, she climbs atop and watches as his eyes roll up and his face soften.

He wicks his fingers between her legs to test her and she locks hold of his eyes, descending on him slowly, sheathing him deeply. He burns her, and she wants to feel every taught line of him, so she rocks her hips and he grips at her waist.

He groans and her jaw slacks from the feeling of his heat and the way he spreads her apart, filling and touching everything she needs to rise to the release that only he can provoke.

"Too long," she says again. This time, her voice is pinched and urgent in her throat.

He lifts his back from the bed and claws at her neck, under her hair. His are a warrior's hands.

"Yes," he responds, biting hard at her lip. "But I promised you ..."

His voice vibrates against her flesh, and the cold of the day wraps its tendrils about her back.

She bucks against him, the sensation working her into a pleasurable, torrid trance.

A thousand wild wolves beat against her throat.


End file.
